


Patrick Stump.

by oh_ms_omegalomaniac



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self Image, Suicide Attempt, Through the Years, Tumblr Prompt, basically a history of pete and patrick, for a prompt, idk - Freeform, self hatred, trigger warning, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_ms_omegalomaniac/pseuds/oh_ms_omegalomaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2001-2013. </p><p>How Patrick and his view of himself had changed through the years (with more than a little help from Pete).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patrick Stump.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt for http://hockeyandahalf.tumblr.com/  
> Send me prompts at http://ohmsomegalomaniac.tumblr.com/ !  
> (summary is terrible sorry)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is only based on existing real people- it is a work of fiction and is about characters who resemble real people. Please don't harass any real people or friends/relatives of real people about shipping.

2001.

Chubby.  
Dressed in an argyle sweater, shorts, a trucker hat and socks.  
Self-conscious and stuttering and shy.

“Just try it, yeah? We promise we won’t laugh at you! You’re a really great drummer, man, but let’s hear you sing. Come on, ‘Trick!”

He likes that nickname- heck, Patrick would like any nickname given to him by The Famous Pete Wentz. 

“Please, Pattycakes?”

Okay, scratch that. Not any nickname. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll sing, but don’t call me that!”

Pete laughs that ridiculous donkey bray of his and cheers loudly along with the curly haired guy from the bookstore, Joe. The two of them, the older sprawled on the ground next to an amp and the younger noodling with his guitar, watch the blond carefully as he begins to pick out the opening melody to You Vandal.

Okay, maybe he heard from that girl who dated that guy who made out with Arma Angelus’ guitarist that one time that Pete likes Saves The Day. It’s not like he’s trying to impress Pete, or anything like that.

It’s not like Pete is not only a legend in the Chicago music scene, but also incredibly attractive and funny and a massive dork and nice to Patrick, nice to him when he stutters and blushes and screws up the opening of the song they had him drum because he was so damn nervous. 

“Last night I dreamt you called from Costa Rica, the place you've been for the last two weeks…”

 

“You’re an angel! An actual angel, I swear it!”

“Oh, really? And what’s your proof of that?”

“You sing like one, you’re like the most friendly little lunchbox in the history of ever, and you totally look like one! Except you don’t have wings.”

“So I’m, like, a human?”

///

2003.

Chubby.  
Dressed in jeans, a black band tee, converse and a trucker hat.  
Slightly less self-conscious and smiling but still shy.

“We did it. We actually did it!”

They’re all screaming like the mature teenagers they are, barely out of high school for Joe and Patrick, mature teenagers who have recorded an album. A real one, with The Famous Andy Hurley drumming instead of some idiot who can’t keep time, with actual people that aren’t their parents listening and liking.

Liking. People like their album. Heck, they love it. They love Pete’s angst-y and furious lyrics, they love Joe’s ridiculous riffs, they love Andy’s explosive drumming and they love Patrick’s singing. 

That’s what Pete’s yelling, anyway, as he drags the four of them into a group hug and smacks a loud kiss onto Patrick’s cheek, leaving him blushing and beaming and flustered. 

“We’re golden, we are! They want us to do music videos and Chris is talking to a whole bunch of actual real record labels! I knew it, you guys, I knew it!” 

Andy’s given up playing it cool, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly and face split in a wild grin, high fiving a slightly-stoned Joe. Patrick watches them with a grin on his face as he pulls away from Pete and pokes the older man in the stomach playfully, mocking his excited tone good-naturedly. 

“Maybe we’ll actually be able to afford an apartment without a broken couch now!”

Poking out his tongue, Pete elbows the blond. 

“It’s the couch that did it. The covers going to be iconic, I see it now! It’s written in the stars, ‘Trick!” 

 

“It’s all you, man. I can’t believe I was writing lyrics when you had this sort of stuff in your head!”

“But I need your voice to bring it to life, Lunchbox. My words don’t mean a thing without that voice. You’ve got range like no motherfucker knows, man, what even!”

“Nah, I’m not that good-“

“Oh, shut up, you’re perfect. Perfect!”

///

2005.

Chubby.  
Dressed in slacks, a collared shirt, a baseball cap and a denim jacket.  
More self-conscious and shy but smiling. 

“Pete-“

He can’t breathe. Pete’s in hospital, Pete’s swallowed a bunch of pills and tried to kill himself in a freaking parking lot. A parking lot. 

“Patrick, Patrick, he’s fine. He’s alive. They’re not letting anyone see him, but we’re going to go try anyway.”

Andy’s hand is on his shoulder and he so badly wants to shrug it off and scream at his friend for being so calm and rational and calm and calm and calm and a parking lot. A bottle of pills. His best friend in his car all alone with the radio turned down and a bottle of pills.

The drive to the hospital is near-silent, the only sound being Joe’s shallow breaths. Joe is dealing worse than Patrick, to be honest, and the blond man is trying to calm himself so he can be there for Joe. Joe, who has known Pete since he was a sixteen year old giving the twenty-something near-celebrity rides to shows. 

Joe, who’s done so well getting his stuff under control and calm. Until now, that is.

Pete’s dad is crying. His mother is silent, pale with lips pursed and eyes slammed shut. Andy’s rubbing Joe’s back as they wait at the doors, waiting for them to let them see Pete. 

It feels like an age before Pete’s parents are done and the band can rush in to see him. Patrick pauses for a moment at the door, taking in the scene before him. Pete doesn’t look sick, doesn’t look like his life was in danger an hour ago.

He just looks tired.

Numb.

Blank. 

 

“Never do that again, kay? We love you, Pete. I- we can’t lose you.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I just wanted quiet. I just wanted it to stop. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s okay, Pete.”

“I know.”

///

2007.

Dressed in jeans, sideburns, Doc Martins and hoodies.  
A little louder, smiling and waving and singing louder. Until. 

“Hey, Lunchbox, did you know- ‘Trick? ‘Trick, what’s wrong?”

He somehow manages to throw the laptop away and wipe his eyes in one smooth motion, turning to Pete and faking a smile.

“Hay fever, you know me-“

“Don’t give me that bull. What’s wrong, Patrick?”

“N-nothing.”

Moving quickly to his friend’s side, the older man sits himself down and snuggles into Patrick’s side. He sits there, silently staring up at the blond, wide eye browns trained on baby blues. 

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to crack. He’s never been able to resist Pete’s eyes- not when Pete was The Famous Pete Wentz begging him to sing and not when Pete is his best friend. 

“I know I shouldn’t be reading that stuff, I know it’s because they’re jealous and bitter and-“

He’s not one for crying, but everything seems to be setting Patrick off these days. It’s not anyone’s fault in particular. They’ve just released an amazing album with amazing songs and done amazing tours. The comments section on their Youtube videos shouldn’t mean anything to him, but it does. 

“What did it say this time?”

Pete’s not pressing like usual, not wheedling it out of Patrick. He asks the question calmly and kindly, burrowing into Patrick’s fat stomach and smiling at him.  
“The stupid old nickname. Fatrick Stump. I thought we had gotten past that after nursery school.” 

They’re silent for a moment, Patrick wiping away the tears that have escaped quickly as Pete seems to be thinking over what to say. He’s obviously choosing his words carefully- he’s a poet, Pete is, and the right words can convert the masses. Patrick has seen that first hand- Pete’s the one who made him believe in himself. 

But Pete doesn’t say a word. He just presses a silent kiss to Patrick’s forehead. 

 

“Perfect, Patrick is perfect, far too perfect for this world-“

“Why are you still singing that?! Gabe was actually making fun of me when he made that up, y’know. It’s supposed to be sarcastic.”

“I don’t care. It’s true. Perfect, Patrick is-“

“Holy smokes, Pete.”

“You love me, ‘Trick, don’t deny it!”

///

2009.

Dressed in a tee, jeans, thinly veiled irritation and a trucker hat.  
Quiet and angry and unhappy and frustrated.  
And still, so, so self-conscious. 

“You’re breaking up the band?”

It’s silent in the studio after Patrick asks the question of Pete. The darker man is staring fiercely back at him, whiskey eyes furious before softening to surrender. 

“We can’t keep this up, ‘Trick. We’re going to end up hating each other.”

“Oh, so you don’t already hate me?! I thought I heard you say that not, what, three days ago?!” 

“’Trick…”

Patrick storms out of the room and calls Andy and Joe straight away. They understand. Joe gets it, knows that it is best, agrees. Andy? Not so much. But he goes along with it.

They don’t talk. They text, they email, the monthly checkups, but they don’t talk. Not like they used to.

 

“We need to take a break.”

“You know what? Fuck you, Pete. We don’t need a break. We need you to get your head out of your ass and stop being The Famous Pete Wentz!”

“Oh, I see how it is. You’re jealous. Jealous. Just because you’re not what the cameras want to see-“

///

2011\. 

Thin.  
Dressed in a suit, tie, devil horns and without a hat.  
Outgoing and happy and confident and brave. But. 

“We liked you better fat.”

“He’s shit without Fall Out Boy.”

“Ugly fucker like him needs a pretty face like Wentz to hid behind!”

He’s back at the Youtube comments. It’s a form of self-punishment for him. Whenever he’s played a bad show, messed up an interview, missed a call from Pete- he’ll google his name.

Patrick knows it’s bad for him, knows that’s it’s dragging down his self-confidence and new found bravery happiness and the pride, the pride that he’s gained. 

Because he’s done it, he’s written and created something all by himself and it’s beautiful. He’s not even being arrogant here. 

Soul Punk is his baby- yeah, sure, some people don’t’ like it, but he likes it and that’s what matters, yeah? 

“Needs to gain some weight and put the hat back on, ew. This is terrible.”

Yeah, no. 

The buzzing of his phone thankfully distracts him and drags him away from his laptop. Patrick turns it on, a smile coming to his face when he sees the name. 

Pete. 

It’s just a short text.

‘finally got out n bought sp!!!! so good omg hpe can get out 2 1 of ur shows soon if thatd be k???’

Patrick closes his laptop. 

Pete likes Soul Punk. 

Pete loves Soul Punk.

Pete wants to see him live, wants to see him live from a view other than back a few meter or two on his left. 

 

“I wrote something. D’ya want to hear it?”

“Well, duh. C’mon, read it out?”

“Not over the phone. We’re not... we’re not ending it on the phone. In person. I want to see you.”

“We’re doing this again, aren’t we.”

“… yes. If you want”

“Well, duh.” 

///

2013\. 

Happy. 

(Weight doesn't matter anymore. Not to Patrick.)

Dressed in a cardigan, dress pants, converse and a fedora. 

Smiling and beaming and singing and grinning and shaking hands and sharing glances and not believing that it’s actually happening.

“We missed you to death. They missed us. Pete, they missed us. They missed us!”

They’re teenagers all over again, hugging and squealing and grinning backstage after their first show back. The kids missed them. 

“We did it. We’re back.”

“We’re back!” 

Patrick doesn’t even think before catching Pete’s lips in a kiss, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist in pure elation. He doesn’t have time to regret his (insanely bold and crazy) move before Pete is kissing him back fiercely, eyes open wide and alight with happiness. 

“We’re back.”

 

“I love you.”

“Duh. Everyone loves me.”

“Yeah, I know. But I love you most.”

“You’re a gigantic dork.”

“…and?”

“Love you too, Pete.”

“Duh!”


End file.
